


Come Out of the Shade

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2848967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Have you ever felt it?</i> she asks him, <i>Real, true love.  That need that leaves you incapable of existing without the other person— </i></p>
<p>And in that moment, he thinks of Porthos - and the thought strikes him to his core.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Out of the Shade

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a fic that I half-wrote after 1x06, and then kind of added onto it throughout the following episodes up until 1x10. And then I kind of sat on it for several months and never finished it up. And even now when I read it over I can tell that it's very much something I wrote months ago (but at least it's kind of heartening to think I've improved even since April?). Regardless, I did finish it, and hey, a fic I'm not fully satisfied with is better than no fic at all - and it's all a learning process even if this fic relies on some pretty overused fanfiction tropes. But hey, sometimes they're overused for a reason. Or something like that. I am glad to be finished with it after so many months, though. 
> 
> Am I a genius for posting something on a day that everyone is likely away? Definitely. Sneak it under the radar or something. Yes. 
> 
> Brief note that this focuses pretty heavily on Aramis' other relationships, most notably with Anne. If that's going to bother you, go ahead and turn back now, because it's featured pretty heavily. Also featured is a lot of Agnes. But since neither women make a distinctive appearance in this fic beyond mentions, I didn't place them in the character tags.

_Have you ever felt it?_ she asks him, and he knows she is concerned, he knows she is genuinely asking, not out of curiosity but out of concern for him, concern for his heart—

And he thinks he must love her, if only because she is breathtaking and everything he wishes he could have and never can and never did—

Thinks he must love her because she is strong and in love with another man, a man who is gone and she will never see again. And yet still loves so acutely, as if there is nothing else she can do but that. 

Because, he thinks, he might have known that love. _Real, true love. That need that leaves you incapable of existing without the other person—_

He thinks he knew it once. Isabelle springs to mind and flits away just as quickly, a painful, open wound that still has yet to heal even after all these years. He thinks, briefly, of Adele, gone to him forever, feeling an entire world away when she is merely a few day’s ride from Paris. He thinks of Marsac, dead in his arms. Briefer still is that soft, growing desire for the queen, and he thinks of the queen, beautiful, eternal, merciful—

And he thinks of Porthos, and the thought strikes him down. For a moment, Aramis doesn’t know what to say – if anything – and he sits there in perfect silence, his thoughts perfectly shifted to a wide smile and dark eyes. Perfect smile, perfect curls, hands that hold him through the night, hands that held him down when he thrashed from nightmares—

He speaks to Agnes, thinks that, perhaps, he loves her. Knows that he does. It’s something Porthos said once – how freely and perfectly he loves, how completely each and every time – and just why he always ends up hurt. He thinks he loves her. He thinks—

Too afraid to examine why it is he thinks of Porthos in this moment, unsure why it is that he’s somehow managed to completely ignore and fail to notice the way his chest squeezes when he thinks of Porthos and _love_ , like it is something he can grasp, like it is something he can have with him.

_Sixteen? And you haven’t loved since?_

 

-

 

“You alright?” Porthos asks, later, in the tavern and he’s pouring Aramis a liberal cup of wine. Henri and Agnes are gone – forever. And he’s left behind, yet again, with nothing but his own racing thoughts and the bitter sting of victory. At least, they will be safe. 

Aramis looks up and studies Porthos’ face. Porthos looks at him, politely concerned and Aramis knows he won’t push, not if Aramis doesn’t want to talk about it. He smiles at him, and reaches for his cup of wine, taking a hefty drink while studying Porthos still. 

He muses on Agnes’ words. He thinks there’s some kind of romantic poetry to potentially loving Porthos – a similarity to Agnes that leaves him feeling hollow. Loving a man that others would deem he ought not. Loving someone who would be killed for being loved. He thinks of Agnes’ husband, beaten to death. He thinks of Porthos, and—

“Hey,” Porthos says, quietly, when he sees the pain dart across Aramis’ face. He reaches out, grasps Aramis’ shoulder, and says, “It’s alright. They’re safe.” 

Fear of discovery. Aramis frowns.

Porthos frowns, too, concerned – always mimicking Aramis’ expressions in these moments. Porthos, who wears his heart on his sleeve. Porthos, who hates to hide. Porthos, who can never hide how he feels. He’s always so concerned, his Porthos. “They’ll be alright. Happy.”

Aramis words come out soft, bitter, “I suppose I can hope for that – but I’ll never know for sure.” 

Porthos frowns more, mulls over his wine, and sighs. “You thought about going with them?”

“Perhaps,” Aramis says, and the thought had crossed his mind – and he doesn’t know if he’d had actually followed through with it, had Agnes properly asked. Knows that, likely, he’d have returned within days to his brothers. He has his family. Agnes had said so, too, had realized it for herself. 

He remembers the soft, warm pride in Agnes’ voice as she told Aramis of walking beside Philippe for the first and last time, the three of them as a family. He remembers the jagged edge to her words as their neighbors overtook them. He breathes out, deep and fluttering, his stomach turning in knots as he looks at Porthos – smiling at him, open and warm, sympathetic and nonjudgmental. 

Porthos, beaten and burned for the sin of Aramis loving him. Condemned to die. Condemned to hell. 

He looks at Porthos. 

No, not Porthos.

 

-

 

He thinks of Porthos – perfect and wonderful, unscarred by something as pitiful as Aramis’ love, a heart too broken to do anything other than love fully and completely, even when he knows it must end. 

He thinks of Porthos – perfect, wonderful Porthos, who only ever wanted the best for him, who only ever smiles at him as if he is the center of the universe. Who laughs, booming laughter. Who laughs even when the world is a cruel place, who enjoys life, who hates to hide. 

Porthos. Wonderful Porthos. 

 

-

 

No, not Porthos. Never Porthos. 

He can’t afford it to be the case – he can’t afford to let it be Porthos. 

 

-

 

He says that to himself – that, no, not Porthos, he must protect Porthos – and yet, it is a simple matter of Porthos drawing him into the shadows of one of their rooms, curling his hands simply around his hips as if made to fit there. Draw him from his clothes, draw him from his thoughts – make him forget everything under the touch of his fingertips, of his lips and tongue.

And he closes his eyes to Porthos’ lips, sighs out, kisses him back – he melts against Porthos, who holds him as if he is perfect, as if he is something worth holding. He folds into Porthos, who has only ever been strong and solid. 

“You’re alright,” he whispers against Aramis’ mouth, soft and warm and perfect. 

“Yes,” Aramis breathes out and lets himself fall. Lets himself believe that Porthos will always catch him.

He falls, and he breathes out, and he lets himself realize, fully – lets himself accept what he’d always known: that he is in love with Porthos when he was never meant to be – when this was only ever meant to be something between friends, a way to pass the time, a way to reassure the other. He lets himself fall, lets himself know it’s true because he’s never been good at lying to himself, never been good at doing what he knows he should—

Never been good at doing anything other than the exact wrong thing. And it is so easy, so very easy, to fall. He falls and he falls—

He falls with no fear of the landing. 

He’s so in love with Porthos, and his heart twists up inside of him. 

He’s a fool to not have realized it sooner. 

 

-

 

He finds himself longing for Porthos in odd moments – simply for the wisp of his breath, the strong presence, the reassurance of his heartbeat. 

And he wonders, truly, if he should stay far away – as far away as he can, if only to protect him. He collapses into himself at the thought, of being out of Porthos’ life – to lose him completely. Burned. Beaten. Buried. The thought leaves him cold, breathless in the worst way. 

But at least he knows that Porthos does not love him as Aramis does him – that Porthos is safe if only because his feelings are that of brotherhood and friendship. That Porthos is safe is enough – as Aramis knows he lacks the strength to truly walk away, fearing that he would never be able to. 

And fearing, desperately crushed with that fear – fearing. Porthos will befall Philippe’s fate. And it will be Aramis’ fault. 

This is what he tells himself even as Porthos closes a hand around his arm, draws him back into his arms, folded around him and holding him as if he is everything. The center of his universe. Aramis closes his eyes, tips his chin up, lets Porthos kiss him – and kisses him back, desperate for it. 

“Hey,” Porthos whispers. 

“No,” Aramis whines. “No more talking. Not now.”

“Later, then,” Porthos murmurs and Aramis nods. Porthos, perfect and wonderful – and protected. 

This is what he tells himself even as Porthos draws him in close, kisses him, hand cupping his cheek.

This is what he tells himself even as he melts into Porthos – already completely his.

 

-

 

“You’re looking at me again,” Porthos says, and he’s smiling – doesn’t look nearly as annoyed as the gruffness of his voice would suggest. 

Aramis laughs – and hates that there is truth to this, that even now he cannot take his eyes off of Porthos – and shakes his head. 

“Something on your mind?”

“No,” Aramis says, thoughts heavy with Porthos.

Porthos’ expression goes soft, softer than Aramis has ever seen it before – and it almost leaves him breathless.

“What?” he asks, blinking. 

“Nothing,” Porthos says. “It’s – I’ll tell you some other time.” 

“No, tell me now,” Aramis demands, laughing, fingers curled around the cup of wine and his eyes glittering in the early sunlight. 

Porthos is smiling at him and it lights up his eyes and Aramis knows he’s smiling back – and they’re both grinning at one another, like fools, over nothing. But it leaves Aramis feeling giddy – lets him forget, for just a moment, of all this weight crushing him down. It’s just him. And it’s just Porthos. And he’s so desperately in love with him it’s almost painful. 

“You’ve just – been looking at me like that a lot lately,” Porthos says, and it’s the catch of the light against his face that makes him look so sunny and warm and Aramis wants to melt all over again. 

“I always look at you, my friend,” Aramis protests, his smile softening. 

Porthos’ expression softens in turn, and he tilts his head to the side. 

“Maybe,” he says, his voice honeyed and dripping with a quiet kind of secret, the kind that he intends to tell.

Aramis drinks his wine, his thoughts heavy with Porthos. 

 

-

 

Despite his realization, he should have known it would all come crashing down at any moment. 

But no, he tells himself. Not Porthos. 

Never Porthos.

 

-

 

He lets Porthos push him down, lets Porthos press up to him – kisses Porthos with all the force of love and the weight of his heart that he can muster, knowing, at least, that Porthos does not feel the same. Knowing and accepting that he is brother and friend to Porthos, lover in moments like this – and nothing more. Even if, as the weeks progress, they do this more and more – slick and sweat and lips. He knows the weight of his own heart, and knows that, at least, Porthos is free of him. 

 

-

 

He returns from the countryside, from the nunnery, from the waters – and knows he is in love with Anne. Knows that he has lost a long love, buried after dying in his arms. His hands shake with it. The cross hangs heavy around his neck and he does not know how to process it at all – does not know how to handle the sudden, crushing weight of love for someone who, undoubtedly, will leave him. Someone he loves who can never be his at all. 

They always, always leave. One way or another. 

He clenches his eyes shut. 

 

-

 

He pours Porthos a cup of wine, but Porthos is quiet and introspective tonight. Aramis smiles to himself, looking at the bump of Porthos’ nose, darling and dear to him, to the way his eyelashes brush across his cheek as he looks down into his cup of wine. He’s pensive, tonight. 

“Something on your mind, my friend?” Aramis asks, warm. His heart feels hollow, he feels turned inside out – but at least he will always feel warm if Porthos is near him, so long as he can revolve around Porthos. 

Porthos looks at him, and then smiles nervously. But he shakes his head, and they drink in silence. As the night wears on, Aramis pulls out his gun and begins to clean it, if only to give himself something to do, his fingers itching for movement. He knows it is only a matter of time before Porthos takes him to bed and, at least, he knows that they both like the smell of gun powder on his fingertips as they lie together. He looks forward to the moment he can lose himself beneath Porthos, sigh out between his lips. 

“Actually,” Porthos says after a moment. And then falls silent. He shifts, and Aramis watches from beneath his lashes as he shifts a bit, fiddles, bites at his lip. Aramis works at his gun. 

“Hm?” Aramis prompts when Porthos says no more. 

“Actually, since I’ve got you here – there was something that I needed to talk to you about.”

“Hm?” Aramis hums again, occupied with cleaning his gun. 

“It’s… uh. It’s not easy to say.” Porthos pauses and then adds, “Well, it is, actually. Pretty easy. Just…” 

Aramis freezes, hands on his gun and feeling all the blood drain from his face. The sudden wash of horror seizes him and he _knows_ what it is Porthos is going to say. He looks up, and Porthos has not noticed the change in Aramis’ expression, since he’s looking down at his hands. And seeing him fiddle and fidget should not be adorable or endearing, because Porthos is big and strong in his movements. Seeing this slight hesitation is enough to flush Aramis’ chest with a warmth and affection, a staggering wave of love for him that nearly knocks him off balance for the pain that he’ll cause him – pain that, ultimately, will save him from such worse horrors in the long run. He knows this, but it is not easy. He knows what Porthos is about to say.

And how could he have been so wrong. 

“I,” Aramis begins, before Porthos can speak again. He swallows thickly. “I believe I know what you’re about to say, my friend.”

Here, Porthos looks up and there’s a flood of relief in his expression that nearly makes Aramis weep. He looks so happy in that moment – it touches his eyes even if he doesn’t visibly smile. 

“Oh,” he says, and then he is grinning, bashful and pleased. “Yeah, I guess you would know. It is you, after all.” 

He looks so happy, and it only makes Aramis feel worse. The weight is crushing. He looks back down at his gun, finishing cleaning it and focusing solely on that. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, unsure. 

“… Think carefully about what you wish to say, dear Porthos,” he says cautiously, and feels Porthos still beside him. “For the words you say cannot be taken back once they’re spoken. I’d hate for you to be mistaken.” 

And just like that, a light dims in Porthos’ expression, his smile wilts in his confusion as he processes the words. It is dismissal. It is polite and distant – a formal rejection meant to save all from embarrassment with the horror of actually speaking the words. Aramis does not meet his eyes. 

Aramis looks down and away, focuses on his gun, shoulders rigid. His fingers are shaking and he can hardly focus on the care the gun requires. He can’t breathe. He can’t speak. He just stays still. 

The silence stretches. 

“What?” Porthos asks at last. 

Aramis says nothing, and after a moment of long, strangling silence, looks up at Porthos.

Porthos is smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes – that heartbreaking, brittle smile that Aramis hates. The one that he somehow thinks is dismissive when really all it does is highlight all the empty spaces between them. He’s never smiled such a smile at Aramis before. 

“Right,” Porthos breathes out, brow furrowed – so utterly confused, still processing it. His breath is just a wisp, and then he adds, softer still, “… Right.” 

Porthos looks away, then, and Aramis knows his message has gotten through – and he wishes more than anything to take it back. 

“I guess I just thought – never mind,” Porthos says, and the smile’s still in place even as he places his hat back on his head and shrugs one shoulder, the very picture of nonchalance. It’d work if Aramis didn’t know him so perfectly, didn’t see the way he was frayed – and visibly hurt beneath the bravado. The cup of wine sits before him, untouched now. Aramis thinks this will be the end of the conversation, that it will be left at that – implied and unspoken, crushed before it could ever have a chance to catch flame. But then Porthos says, very hushed and unwrapping from his cool resolve, “I thought you… felt as I did.”

“You were mistaken,” Aramis says as abrupt as he can manage, just as quietly, his voice thick and pained. 

Porthos nods, and looks away again. He nods his head a second time and stands up. He stands there, wavering for a moment, looking down at Aramis – and hesitating if only because he wants to meet Aramis’ eye. But Aramis refuses to look up. 

“… Right,” Porthos says quietly, again. He steps back and hesitates again. But still Aramis does not look up. 

Porthos adjusts his hat. Stands there. Takes a breath. 

Aramis clenches his eyes shut, the gun lying useless in his lap. 

“Of course.” It is but a breath but it stabs like a sword. 

Porthos breathes out and takes his leave, closing the door with a decisive shut behind him. No goodbye. No dismissal. 

Aramis watches the door, as if half-expecting it to open again and Porthos to insist on answers. But he never comes. And Aramis knows it’s for the best – that he’ll have saved him from more heartbreak in the long run. Porthos, above all else, deserves a life he can live without being judged at every turn – bad enough at what he faces without Aramis’ heart. If anyone were to discover—

It doesn’t matter now. The task is done. 

 

-

 

Not Porthos, he tells himself. Never Porthos.

Let him live his life in happiness, not in hiding. He will be better for this. He will be happy.

He will be alive. 

 

-

 

But then Porthos is upon him the next day, expression rigid and closed off –still hurt and confused. He corners Aramis, doesn’t let him escape. Aramis could have expected this, could have remained in the company of musketeers who aren’t Athos. But instead, he lets himself linger in the garrison yard before the start of the day, alone. And Porthos comes barreling towards him and Aramis has never been able to stop Porthos when he is a man on a mission – so brazen, so sincere, and yet so calm and gentle when he wishes to be. He is not calm now. 

“You make no sense,” he says, immediately, once he has Aramis around the corner. 

“Good morning,” Aramis says, soft and polite, staring at Porthos as he tries to slip past, only to be pushed back against the wall of the stables. 

“What you said last night,” Porthos says. 

“Yes?” Aramis breathes, tries to keep his voice steady – tries to keep it impassive. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Porthos mutters, and his expression shifts to something more fragile, more tentative – more heartbroken. “You – I didn’t. I couldn’t have imagined it. You feel as I do. At least—” he fumbles. Aramis says nothing, just watches Porthos fumble, watches the doubt creep into his eyes, the way his fingers curl against the wall above Aramis’ head. Porthos looks away, frowns, and then shifts his gaze to stare directly at Aramis, and he feels bare and exposed beneath that long gaze. Porthos breathes out, whispers, even then not hiding the small glimmer of hope, “At least, I thought you did.” 

“As I said before,” Aramis says, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. “You were mistaken.” He looks away. “You mistook my kindness as an indication of favor. You’re… a dear friend to me, Porthos. That’s all. I’d wish for it to remain that way.”

Porthos doesn’t answer, just staring down at his boots, frowning, and looking so incredibly upset. Aramis stays still, and resists all urges to fling himself at Porthos, to beg forgiveness. 

“You are my friend,” Aramis repeats, softer, and there is a plea in his voice – please don’t leave him. Not like this. Not because of this. Don’t leave like the rest, at least. 

Aramis knows how it will be for himself, for the rest of his life. He had lived his life with an ideal – of a love he lost and never hoped to return. He had seen countless women enter his life, claim love, and float away again. He is not one that can be loved for long – for those that do always, ultimately, change their mind. Or die. Or both. 

He grasps at the chain that hangs around his neck, his thumb pressing over the ornate design of the queen’s gift to him, the cross burning into his palm. Every single one will eventually leave – and she will eventually leave, too, he thinks, when her favor evaporates and she is left realizing that she need never set her sights so low. Should he ever even see her again, beyond the pageantry of the court. He won’t, he thinks. He’s already lost her. 

Porthos eyes are on the cross now, and there is anger in his eyes before he clamps it down. Aramis’ heart sparks in his chest and he _fears_ , fears that Porthos somehow knows of what has done only a few short weeks ago, and his heart grows heavy with thoughts of Anne. But the anger in Porthos’ eyes disappears after a moment, replaced only with that painful resignation. 

“I see.” 

He nods once, and turns to go. He leaves Aramis leaning against the wall, unable to breathe, his hand burning from the cross against his palm. 

Porthos does not speak another word. 

 

-

 

He fears it will be different, that Porthos will resent him or avoid him. But when Aramis arrives at the garrison the next day, Porthos and Athos are already there, and Porthos is sparring with d’Artagnan, determined to get more scratches etched into his new uniform. He picks up d’Artagnan easily, spins him, tosses him into the hay with an indignant squawk from the regiment’s newest musketeer. And when they both look up and d’Artagnan calls his greeting to Aramis, Porthos looks up too, nods once, and goes back to catching d’Artagnan off guard. 

It isn’t the warmest of receptions, but it isn’t overly cold, either – it’s only neutral. He’s letting Aramis set the ground, he realizes, because of course in Porthos’ mind he would have been the one to have slighted, the one to present his feelings where they were not welcome, the one to step over the line they’d drawn plainly between themselves. To Porthos, he is in the wrong. Aramis should perhaps be grateful, but it only leaves him feeling guilty – that it is Porthos who believes himself mistaken, believes himself ungentlemanly and unsavory. 

That it is Porthos who feels he is in the wrong is enough to make Aramis want to scream all his confessions, to ground himself down to the floor in pursuit of his repentance – for ever making Porthos feel he is unworthy. It is his fault. 

He restrains himself, however, and nods his greeting back before going to Athos’ side to discuss the assignment for the day. It’s looking to be relatively slow – just a matter of doing some rounds, but Aramis is grateful that the rounds do not include the palace. He does not know how he would handle seeing the queen. He does not know how he would handle seeing the queen with Porthos burning holes into his back, watching him carefully for any betrayal, any reaction. 

He cannot bear the idea of anyone looking at him. He feels too exposed as it is. Far too exposed. Where he would usually thrive on the attention, on the praise – now he just wants to curl up. If he hadn’t ruined everything, Porthos would hold him tonight. 

Instead, he has made Porthos believe himself wrong. 

He knows what Porthos would say, if it were Aramis to step to him, if it were Aramis to apologize for not returning his feelings. He knows what Porthos would say – that he did not care. (A lie.) 

That he was used to it. (A truth.) 

As if that were not the most heartbreaking thing he could ever hear from Porthos – that he is _used_ to being unloved, that he is used to his feelings being unreturned, as if he has not spent his entire life fighting, has not spent his entire life proving so many wrong. And it is the last thing Aramis wishes to give him – more fighting, more _being used to it_ , when love is something that is meant to be wonderful, something that is meant to be peace and vulnerability and happiness. 

Love is meant to be perfection. Not something shielded away and hidden. Not something that causes pain, hatred, distress—

Not something where the hate fills in, and you are _used to it._ He cannot do that to Porthos. Not Porthos. 

He envisions telling Porthos the truth – that he is, undoubtedly, loved in return, that he cannot bear the thought of forcing him a life of lie and hiding. That he is forcing Porthos a danger worse than just hanging – that he can see, completely, Agnes’ description of Philippe, bloody and beaten and _dead_ all because Agnes loved him. He cannot let the same be of Porthos – cannot let Porthos die by his own inability to hold back. He cannot stand the idea of Porthos being hated. 

He cannot stand the idea of Porthos dying – much less because of him. 

 

-

 

_I’m not alone._ Agnes had said. _Are you?_

Aramis smiles and ducks his head, twisted up inside. 

 

-

 

They fall back into their pattern – silent communications, eyes meeting from across the way, small, secretive smiles. It takes a few weeks, but it happens, all the same. Porthos is Porthos, and he has never been able to hide his heart. They are, above all else, brothers and friends. That much does not change. 

Weeks pass, and Porthos ducks his head down away from Aramis only a few times – and when he looks up again, he is warm and he is smiling and he is _Porthos._ Just, a Porthos who has learned to hide his heart better. 

Porthos is his friend. He has not abandoned him. He is the one to withdraw, to pretend that it never happened at all – if Aramis hadn’t known better, he’d have though that Porthos’ almost-confession had only been a dream. 

But he does know better. 

He sees the way Porthos looks at him, when he thinks that Aramis is not looking. The longing. The confusion. The hurt. 

How he wishes he could be anyone else – how he wishes that he was not the cause of such a look, not the cause of pain in Porthos’ heart. Porthos, who loves so deeply, so completely – who is always so distant at first but then dives headfirst because that is just who he is. Beautiful, wonderful Porthos, who knows exactly how easy it is to knock down his walls, knows exactly how long to hold back before he just lets himself feel everything completely. 

His beautiful Porthos, whom he’s hurt so immeasurably. 

It is for his own good, he tells himself. It is for his own good. 

 

-

 

_Real, true love. That need that leaves you incapable of existing without the other person—_

Aramis knows nothing. 

 

-

 

When Aramis thinks of Porthos – beneath that uncertainty, beneath that pain, beneath that reassurance to himself that he is protecting Porthos—

He feels light, like he could fall in love over and over and never grow tired of it – never stop finding a means to love Porthos. 

Someday, he hopes that Porthos will love someone as Aramis loves him. With the force of singular devotion, fall in love and fall in love and fall in love – steady and forever. He hopes that someone is someone who will be with him forever, who will only bring him joy and light, never pain, never fear, never uncertainty or ignorance. Porthos deserves happiness. He deserves to fall in love so deeply that there is only hope for him. 

That is Porthos. Steady and forever. 

 

-

 

“You truly wanted to marry your widow didn’t you?” Aramis asks, then corrects himself quietly, “Alice.” 

They are sprawled out in Porthos’ quarters, a traditional means to spend their evenings that Aramis is glad to return to without any true awkwardness. Of course, now he has drunk more wine than he anticipated and his lips are moving before he can think to reign himself back in. Still, Porthos has never judged him for his questions, and he’s likely not to do so now – even if, as soon as he asks the question, he knows it is the wrong thing to say. 

Porthos gives him a pained look – puzzled and uncertain. “Where’d that come from?” 

Porthos doesn’t tell him that Aramis already knows the answer – although Aramis is sure they both think it in that moment. They both know the answer. 

“Did you truly wish to?” Aramis insists, hand reaching up to touch at his cross before he thinks better of it and adjusts his collar instead, grabs his hat, fiddles with the feathers, replaces the hat. Rinse and repeat three times as he waits for Porthos’ answer. 

Porthos stares down into his cup, miserable. He sets it down. He looks up. 

“Wish to marry a woman who cared for me?” Porthos asks. “Who loved me?”

Aramis swallows thickly, his throat dry – feeling the sudden urge to cry although he hasn’t cried in some time now, not since that night with Anne months ago. He thinks of her, then – thinks of Agnes, of Isabelle. He feels cold all over. 

“Yes,” he forces himself to say, although he knows it is foolish to do so. 

Porthos looks away for a moment, sighs out, runs a hand down his face and clenches his jaw. Whether from the pain of a memory or anger at Aramis for resurfacing it, Aramis does not know. He doesn’t want to know. 

“Yes,” Porthos says after a pause, his voice quiet and _certain_ , “Of course I wished it.” 

It feels like a stab, and Aramis knows he would have no one to blame but himself, should he ever lose Porthos. And yet, Porthos stayed—

“Why did you stay?” he asks, breathless, afraid of the answer and yet needing that answer

_Who would look after you if I did that?_ Porthos had said back then, smiling at him lightly. Aramis had burned with jealous back then, and yet he’d smiled when he’d known that Porthos would not leave him. Porthos had looked at him – and later that night had held him down and fucked into him and they’d looked at one another, never looking away, and Aramis, back then, had at least felt assured that Porthos did not love him as Aramis loved him – but it would be enough. And it was for the best. 

And now—

Porthos lowers his eyes, and looks sadder than he’s ever seen him. 

“You know why I stayed.” 

He sees Porthos’ broken body in his mind once more, dark eyes accusing even in his death – when instead he’d usually see Porthos’ laughing face, the look in his eyes before he leans in to kiss Aramis. All those smiles, all those soft looks – Porthos, looking at Aramis like he is his _world_ , like he is in love. 

So in love. Aramis should have known. Aramis should have realized – even if he is unworthy of it, Porthos loves so completely, so deeply – he should have known that Porthos would love him. 

Now there’s just this face before him now, quiet and uncertain and pained. And he is the cause. 

_I’m not alone. Are you?_ she’d asked him. 

“I think I might have been happy,” Porthos says after a moment, tentatively. 

Aramis nods. “A wife. Children. You’d be a wonderful husband.” 

Porthos smiles, wan and uncertain still – looks up at Aramis, must see the longing in Aramis’ own eyes. 

“Maybe,” Porthos says. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?” 

“But… There are other chances. You could be happy.” 

“No other woman would be her,” Porthos says, slowly, and still looks directly at Aramis. “I can’t love someone else as I did another. No woman would be Alice. No love I might have would be – anyone else. That isn’t how it works.”

Aramis forces himself to look away. 

“You could have that life, if you wished it,” Aramis says quietly.

“So could you,” Porthos returns, and it’s a stab to his heart. 

Aramis says nothing. Porthos looks at him for a long moment and then looks away. 

 

-

 

_Have you ever felt it?_

 

-

 

“She loves him,” Aramis says, watching Constance leave the garrison. Porthos stands beside him. 

“Well, she said she didn’t,” Porthos returns. 

“And you believe that?” Aramis asks before he can think better of it. 

“ _He_ did,” Porthos says, and Constance rounds the corner. Porthos watches where she disappeared before he’s turning towards him with a long look. He meets Aramis’ eyes – holds it steady. 

Aramis knows he is treading too deep into waters – and yet he doesn’t stop. 

“You only have to look at her. She loves him alright.” They are, of course, speaking of Constance. This is what he tells himself. 

Their plan is underway – they’re meant to meet with d’Artagnan and Athos soon, but Porthos is still looking at him, long and steady and – all too knowing. 

Aramis stops breathing for half a second. 

“Why would she lie about that?” Porthos asks, finally, and Aramis breathes out – slow and precise, his heart beating. 

Aramis shrugs, going for nonchalance even when he feels as if he is drowning. “There could be many reasons.” 

“Why can’t she be honest?” Porthos asks without missing a beat. 

Aramis swallows, finds it difficult to breathe. “Perhaps she’s afraid.” 

“Why should she be – if she knows how he feels for her?” Porthos returns, and there is no doubt that neither of them are speaking of Constance or of d’Artagnan now. And Aramis feels foolish for it, feels overwhelmed, knows he should stop it, knows that it has been _months_ and still his heart is full of Porthos. 

He thinks of Philippe. 

He looks at Porthos. 

“Perhaps knowing is what scared her.” 

Porthos frowns, and his brow furrows and it takes all Aramis has not to reach out and smooth his fingertips over his face, try to soothe him back to comfort. 

Porthos asks, slower now, much quieter, “Why doesn’t she do anything about it now?”

“It’s been so long – perhaps she worries that things have changed.” It’s been months. His mind is heavy with the queen. With thoughts of Athos and Milady. Of Agnes, long gone now. Of Porthos himself. 

Porthos is still frowning – still frustrated, still confused. Angrier now, that kind of thrumming, simmering anger that boils low inside of him, never outright exploding. He does not speak in code well. He never has. 

He looks at Aramis, long and steady, and says without any doubt of what he speaks: “One look at him and she should know that nothing’s changed for him. That his feelings are the same as they were. That they won’t change.” 

Aramis feels too tired, thinks of Alice and swims in his jealousy, staled after months without her but ready to reignite at any moment. Stares at Porthos, knows he should stop this conversation – and does nothing to do so. He aches to reach out to Porthos, to touch at his face, to hold him close. It’s been months and they’ve only ever exchanged brief touches and only in the heat of battle or in the boredom of patrol. Never of intimacy. Porthos, for all his longing looks, has never approached Aramis in anything other than friendship. 

Aramis licks his lips, and sighs. “Well, perhaps she – saw him with other suitors, or … believed he was seriously considering the proposal of another.” 

But Porthos is angry now. It draws up into his mouth, his shoulders squaring, his jaw clenching. “Well maybe she should open her eyes and realize that was months ago and nothing came of it. That he’s still thinking of her every day, maybe sometimes despite himself.” 

Aramis heart is heavy and ready to burst. He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. 

He breathes out, shakily, and says, “Our d’Artagnan certainly sounds the romantic.”

“Yeah, don’t tell him you said that or else he’ll blush,” Porthos mutters. 

“Perhaps she wants to see him blush – or be the cause of that blushing.” His words are tentative, to try to give him room to breathe – to joke again like he used to. 

But Porthos snaps out, “Perhaps she should actually be honest for once, then.”

“Porthos—“

“Come on. They’re waiting for us.” 

And Porthos turns away from him – leaving Aramis watching him go. And then he takes off after him, silent. 

 

-

 

_—the kind that leaves you incapable—_

 

-

 

Milady is gone from France. Athos picks up the pieces of his life.

Constance loves d’Artagnan, as Aramis had said – and yet they are not together. They watch d’Artagnan stare into space, lonely and quiet, thinking only of her. 

The Queen is with child. 

 

-

 

Months pass. Aramis’ life feels like tatters – broken beyond repair. What once was known, what once was sure, is no longer. He knows nothing. 

He doesn’t know what to do any longer.

 

-

 

Aramis clasps Porthos’ arm, tugs him close. It’s a quiet night in Paris, a rarity, and they are leaving the tavern – not guiding Athos back to his quarters, but rather d’Artagnan. He is not adjusting to life without Constance. Aramis’ heart aches for him, but then, his own heart is hardly something to desire, something to model after. The queen is healthy, doing well through her pregnancy. 

Still, he grabs Porthos’ arm, halts him in the street. It’s dangerous out here, and he sways for a moment – almost leans into him. But Porthos is tall, steady, and holds him back so that he remains upright. Friendship. Just friends. 

“All those months ago – with Agnes. When we were together for those three days.”

“What, did you sleep with her?” Porthos asks, utterly confused. 

“No, I – I merely…” he fumbles for the words. “She spoke of her husband’s fate,” he whispers out, unable to meet Porthos’ eye. “A mob killed him because they were ignorant, because they were cruel.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Porthos asks, not unkindly, staring down at where Aramis touches his arm. He swallows once, touches his hand, and then steadies him again – and resumes walking, leading Aramis towards his own apartment. He murmurs, mostly to himself, “You’ve drunk too much, too.” 

“She loved him,” Aramis babbles out, drunk and heartbroken, “Even then – loved him even though their one chance to be together, proudly, without fear and without hiding… merely led to her without her husband and their child without a father.” 

Porthos stares at him for a long moment, stiffening under Aramis’ admittance. 

“… I do not think I could bear that, if I were to be the cause of someone’s death.” 

“If you loved them, wouldn’t it be worth it – to be with them despite the risk?”

“Not if the result was death,” Aramis whispers out. 

Porthos continues to look at him as they walk – steady and sure, not nearly as drunk as Aramis feels. He hopes that he isn’t so drunk that Porthos will dismiss this. He hopes he isn’t so drunk that he’ll forget that he’s saying this at all. 

Aramis drops his hand away, shifts his gaze away. Porthos’ hand is steady on his back, and they get to Aramis’ apartment. 

“I…” Aramis begins. He sways. 

Porthos steps to him, murmurs his name, and his hand is lifting to reach for him again – and Aramis knows that if Porthos draws him close in, everything truly will crumble. 

And he is so afraid. 

“Forgive me. I must leave.” 

He flees. Opens his door and stumbles into his quarters, shuts the door behind him before Porthos can speak. Porthos does not follow. 

 

-

 

The young prince is born healthy, and Aramis watches him and his mother in the palace the days he’s allowed to be on guard. 

His heart, heavy with longing. 

So much longing. 

 

-

 

_Have you ever felt it?_

 

-

 

They are drunk, and Aramis slumps into Porthos’ shoulder, sobs out, clings to him – thinks of all the secrets that weigh down inside of him, all the things that he wishes he could tell Porthos.

Porthos curls his arms around him, holding him close, holding him tight. 

Loved.

Protected. 

How wonderful it must be – to be fully loved, unafraid. 

 

-

 

“You’d have been a beautiful father,” Aramis says, desperate for anything, for any means to let Porthos know that all is well, that all will be alright. “If you’d married Alice.”

“Would you stop speaking of her as if it’s something that could have ever happened?” Porthos snaps. 

Aramis recoils. He doesn’t know why he keeps doing this. 

 

-

 

He watches Anne walk arm-in-arm with the king, the baby dauphin in her other arm. She smiles up at her husband. 

 

-

 

He sobs again into Porthos’ shoulder, and Porthos holds him without question—

Aramis only ever drinks enough to cry like this without shame, but never enough that he would actually speak the words – all the words of all the secrets he’s kept from Porthos. That he is a father. That he has risked Athos’ life as well as his own, as well as his child and his mother. That he has never loved anyone as he loves Porthos. That he never will again.

That he loves him so much that it frightens him. That it hurts to love him this much. 

One night, he mouths the words sloppily against his neck but Porthos is already asleep and doesn’t realize what he says. 

 

-

 

He doesn’t know why he says it this time, but he looks up at Porthos and says, “I don’t know what I’d do – if anything were to happen to you.”

Porthos looks at him, steady – if confused. “Nothing will happen to me.”

“But you can’t promise that.”

“Nothing will happen to me,” Porthos repeats, steady, staring into Aramis’ eyes. 

 

-

 

Someday, he hopes that Porthos will love someone as Aramis loves him. With such force, with such weight – that it’s almost too much, that it can only lead to his happiness and his devotion. 

That is Porthos. Steady and forever. 

He wants to know Porthos for the rest of his life. However short that might be. He wants to see the moment when Porthos is too in love to do anything other than accept that love for what it is—

He looks up and sees Porthos watching him. He drinks his wine. 

 

-

 

Aramis is drunk. He pushes Porthos to the wall, leans in, and kisses him. 

“Fuck,” Aramis gasps out and pulls back. He blinks at Porthos. “Porthos…”

Porthos looks at him, with that deep, crushing longing. “Aramis.” 

“I didn’t…”

“Go to sleep.” 

 

-

 

When he wakes up in the morning, though, Porthos is there waiting, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at him. 

“You’re drinking too much lately,” Porthos says. “You never used to drink this much.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis breathes out, lifts his hand – reaches out. And Porthos clasps his hand. He breathes out. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Porthos says. 

“You don’t know.”

“I do,” Porthos says, and looks down. He looks at their hands – and Aramis knows he should draw his hand back. But at this point, he’s far too tired – he’s just _done_. 

This has done him no good. He is miserable. He is alone. He is unhappy and hung-over and his heart is heavy with too many things, too many missed chances, too many things that can never be his—

Aramis is about to speak but then Porthos asks, “Are you done now?” 

“What?”

“Are you done running?” 

Aramis stares at him, aghast. 

“I get why you did. Why you are. For a while, I didn’t – for a while, I thought you really didn’t love me. But…”

“Porthos—”

“I know. Are you done now?” 

Aramis can’t breathe – his heart is hammering and he knows what he must do. His mind is heavy with thoughts of Porthos, dead and broken. Aramis, dead and without the son that can never be truly his. Anne, walking away from him. Isabelle, dead in his arms. Marsac, dead in his arms. Adele, gone. Agnes, gone. Porthos—

No, not Porthos. Never Porthos. 

And yet, he reaches for him, touches his face, traces his thumb over the long line of the scar across his face. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, “My love, I’m sorry.” 

He is selfish. He has only ever been selfish. 

Porthos smiles at him, weak and tiny – hesitating after all these months but unable to hide that longing, that hope.

“Are you done?” Porthos asks again. 

“Yes,” Aramis sobs. “Yes, I – please. I love you, Porthos.” 

Porthos swallows thickly, his bottom lip wobbling for half a moment before he’s smiling at him, brilliantly. And he speaks the words, so easy, as if it can ever be this easy—

“I love you, too. You fucking idiot.” 

Aramis sobs out around the smile – knows that he is selfish, knows that he cannot stand the idea of being the cause of Porthos’ death, but unable to let him go all the same. 

He kisses him, sweet and tender, clinging tight to him. 

“I love you,” he gasps out. 

“Me too,” Porthos returns, murmurs the words against his mouth. The words he’s held in for so many months now, Aramis knows, the words that were never far from his lips. 

Aramis falls and falls and falls—

And he does not hit the bottom. He falls merely into Porthos’ arms, held tight, held safe – and he knows he is safe. Even if only for now. 

And yes—

_Have you ever felt it?_ she’d asked him. 

_Forever._

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason!


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